The dinner party conspiracy
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: Draco hates dinner parties. So does eight-year-old Scorpius. One-shot. *Father son story* Please R&R.


**The dinner party conspiracy**

**Summary:** Draco hates dinner parties. So does eight-year-old Scorpius. Humour.

**Rating:** K

**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to JK Rowling. I just like to play with them now and then.

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Draco hates dinner parties. He hates the stuffy, austere atmosphere of Malfoy Manor, with its pretentious over-the-top furniture and army of house elves. Like his wife who is working late at St Mungo's tonight, he wishes he had a plausible excuse to stay away, but no such luck. He is here, surrounded by his father's associates, many of whom who have double-barrelled surnames. Lucius likes double-barrelled surnames; he seems to think that the more names a person can have, the higher their social ranking.

Draco knows that not to be true, though he did not _always_ think in that way of course.

Draco sometimes finds that at dinner parties such as this one, he has strange, hard-to-control urges- the desire to rebel against the gauche pompousness by stuffing his face inanely full of vegetables until his cheeks are bulging, or perhaps dancing on the tables with the house elves. He never will of course, but sometimes the images that pop into his head make him smile.

Draco's eyes dart across the table to where his eight-year-old son is seated beside his grandmother and methodically spearing one singular pea onto his fork, one at a time. His blond hair hangs in his face and his eyes are dull as he looks down at his plate, perhaps also wishing he was anywhere but here. His grandfather drones on about Gringotts and the wizard stock market and his friends nod their head with interest and Draco is beginning to feel desperate now.

He coughs slightly as he picks up his crystal water glass and Scorpius looks up, halting in the motion of spearing peas. Draco eyes his son with an inconspicuous grin and winks at him, though no one else has noticed.

Scorpius grins toothily back, showing slightly more chewed mashed potato than is necessary, but who cares? Then, with a practiced innocence and careful nonchalance, he somehow upsets his entire dinner plate, which slides heedlessly into his lap with ease. Gravy splatters the floor and Scorpius' robes and the remaining peas bounce carelessly across the lace tablecloth. A sole mound of mashed potato just narrowly misses Narcissa's pointy shoe.

"Oops," says Scorpius, looking crestfallen.

Lucius stops discussing Gringotts and eyeballs his grandson with abject disapproval. His grey eyes are fixed in an expression of suspicion.

Scorpius manages to retain his angelic expression as he brushes miserably at his ruined robes; "I'm sorry grandfather," he mumbles, looking distraught, prodding at a lone pea on the tabletop.

"Honestly, Scorpius, this is becoming a regular occurrence!" huffs Lucius. He looks put out, both at his grandson's evident clumsiness _and_ at being interrupted mid-tale, for Lucius likes the limelight. "Rather reminiscent of your father's table manners at his age I believe."

Lucius himself was _never _clumsy, of that he is quite sure.

Draco is hiding a smile behind his napkin as he takes his son by one sticky, potato-covered hand and helps him to his feet. The motion causes more food to fall to the floor, including one slice of roast beef, but no one notices. "Apologies father... gentlemen, mother..." he bows sombrely to those present and leads his son to the fireplace where they quickly floo out of there.

Their cottage is warm and welcoming, and just as she promised; his wife has left them a big plate of gooey homemade chocolate brownies on the kitchen bench. His eyes light up, as do Scorpius' and both of them converge on the plate eagerly, forgetting dirty gravy-stained robes and potato clogged fingers.

Their mouths are full, both looking rather chocolatey and naughty when Draco smiles down at his son, showing perhaps a bit more brownie than is necessary, but who cares?

"Thanks Scorp," he beams.

Scorpius' grin now fully suggests the conspiracy that just took place; "You're welcome dad," he says matter-of-factly, before his hands return to the plate of brownies once more; "you're very welcome indeed."

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End file.
